


waiting for the next time i can get you close

by silverfoxflower



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Pining, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29963499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxflower/pseuds/silverfoxflower
Summary: He grabbed Jaskier’s wrist, held it firm as he swallowed the crumbling pastry in one, wolfish bite. He hardly tasted it, in truth, too preoccupied with the scrape of his teeth against the pads of Jaskier’s fingers.When Jaskier withdrew his hand he looked shaken, his breathing just a touch uneven. “Hungry boy,” he muttered, his eyes cutting away. “Spare me my livelihood, at least.”Geralt grunted as he rubbed the crumbs from his lips, thinking,that’s what I would do to him. Consume him entirely and in the whole.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 262





	waiting for the next time i can get you close

Geralt had a sharp nose which could parse the individual strains of scent, as finely as the fibers split from a blade of grass.

Jaskier smelled of … usually something flowery. Oils and concentrates. Clean sweat on hot summer days. Fresh vellum and the honeyed wood of his lute. 

But each individual scent little made the whole. Even if Geralt was able to gather all of these things together, he would not be able to recreate the warm, shining smell of _Jaskier_.

And how it made him weak at the knees. 

–

“My, you’ve got a sour puss,” Jaskier said blithely. He was eating some sugar-glossed pastry, pulling it apart with his fingers and sliding the small, dainty bites between his pink lips.

Geralt looked away with a grimace. 

“No different from usual, I suppose,” Jaskier bought his thumb to his mouth and sucked the sweetness from it with a warm, pleasured sound that Geralt felt to his fingertips. “Ah,” Jaskier said, as if just realizing. “You want a taste?” 

“What?” Geralt glanced at him, “No-” 

But Jaskier was already offering Geralt his last bite, perched upon the tips of sticky fingers, an indulgent smile on his face. It was more temptation than Geralt could take in three lifetimes. 

He grabbed Jaskier’s wrist, held it firm as he swallowed the crumbling pastry in one, wolfish bite. He hardly tasted it, in truth, too preoccupied with the scrape of his teeth against the pads of Jaskier’s fingers. 

When Jaskier withdrew his hand he looked shaken, his breathing just a touch uneven. “Hungry boy,” he muttered, his eyes cutting away. “Spare me my livelihood, at least.” 

Geralt grunted as he rubbed the crumbs from his lips, thinking, _that’s what I would do to him. Consume him entirely and in the whole._

Best stay away.

–

The worst of tortures - pressed into proximity somewhere small and dark and close. 

“I don’t think they saw us,” Jaskier whispered, and Geralt could hear his heart, beating rabbit-fast. 

Jaskier’s back warm and firm against his chest. Jaskier’s hair brushing his nose. Lavender. Crushed grass. Musk. 

Geralt groaned under his breath, trying to strain his senses to anything _but_ Jaskier. The _danger at hand_ , perhaps. 

Then the snap of a stick and Jaskier flinched back, grabbing for Geralt’s wrist. And.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, the soft of his thigh grinding tightly against Geralt’s erection. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt muttered, his thoughts scattering. He should just shove Jaskier aside, kick open the closet door and deal with the nest of alps (he’d been told about the _one_ ) prowling the ruins and perhaps die in the process. 

Anything was better than this. 

“… it’s just, you know, the adrenaline-” Jaskier was babbling, having dropped Geralt’s wrist like it burned. He was folding himself away into the furthest corner of the closet, and Geralt would have taken the stiffness in his body for _fear_ , but. 

Unmistakably, like the melt of wax under flame. A new scent came to twine with the others, warm and tentative and brilliant. 

He had smelled it on Jaskier when he draped himself on silk-skinned beauties and bright-eyed dandies. When he returned to their inn room at the dark hours of morning, dripping with self-satisfaction and covered in the marks of others. 

It was _lust_. 

Then the closet door rocked inwards with a splintering blow, and suddenly there were more urgent things to deal with. 

–

“Well that was unexpected,” Jaskier muttered, each of his steps making a distinct and bloody _squish_. Not his blood, thank Melitele. But still. It had come quite close.

“What?” Geralt grunted, anticipating Jaskier to bring up … whatever it was that happened in the closet. His shameful secret, out at last. 

“That we _lived_ , of course.” Jaskier drew his arms over himself and lengthened his spine in a luxurious stretch. “I don’t know about you, but I need a _bath_.” 

Now, Jaskier smelled only of alp’s blood and guts, and Geralt could think clearly. What he noticed before was an aberration. A trick of the mind. 

He’d keep his face out of Jaskier’s hair, learn to interrogate aldermen at greater length when they seemed suspiciously nervous and this would never, _ever_ happen again.

–

“Normally, I’d say I’ve awoken in worse situations,” Jaskier said breathlessly, “but, uh, that would be a lie.” 

Geralt made a terse sound. He was bound at his wrists and ankles, crammed into the bottom of a small, rickety boat which was slowly filling with water. But none of that perturbed him as much as the fact that Jaskier was in the same situation, and _draped_ upon him. 

Chest to chest, knee to thigh. Jaskier’s chin digging into his cheek. Not even the growing dampness against Geralt’s back was a strong enough distraction from his overwhelming urge to suck Jaskier’s earlobe into his mouth. 

_Fuck._

“Hold on-” Jaskier said, and _squirmed_. 

“Stop!” Geralt barked, but of course Jaskier didn’t, wriggling violently as the boat rocked and water slopped over the sides. He only stopped when his chest was pressed against Geralt’s knees and he only stopped because-

“Oh.” Jaskier’s eyes widened at the bulge in front of Geralt’s trousers. 

Geralt closed his eyes painfully. “There’s a knife in my boot,” he rasped. “I’m going to try to get it.” He opened his thighs, trying to work his knee from under Jaskier’s shoulder.

“You want me to-” 

“ _No. Don’t you dare fucking move_ ,” Geralt said through his teeth, working his knee free from under Jaskier’s shoulder and pressing it up to his chest as his bound hands scrabbled for purchase against the bottom of his slippery leather boot. 

Of course, this meant that Jaskier’s head was pinned between his thighs. Geralt could feel the point of Jaskier’s nose digging into the span of flesh just under his navel and Jaskier’s wet breath against the front of his straining trousers. 

“Oh Melitele,” Jaskier might have said, his voice muffled by Geralt’s crotch. 

Whatever it was, Geralt did _not_ have the wherewithal to deal with this right now. His hands - bound and cold and rapidly losing circulation were _this close_ to working free the knife from his damnable boot. His senses were bombarded with the roar of water and the salt of the sea, the imminent danger making blood rush to his ears as the boat became half-full, forcing him to crane his head up to avoid swallowing seawater. 

Yet, through all of this, _all of this-_

He could smell that Jaskier was aroused again.

–

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Jaskier crawled out of the water and collapsed onto his shoulder, coughing. “That was _too_ close.” 

Geralt, spayed on his back beside him, was too preoccupied with drawing breath into his needy lungs to reply. 

They panted for a while on the beach in the greying twilight, and it was almost companionable. 

“So,” Jaskier said, and Geralt groaned. 

He rolled to his side painfully and pushed to his feet, limping away as Jaskier shouted after him. 

“We’re gonna have to talk about this _some_ time, you know!” 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Geralt said, perhaps a bit desperately as he heard Jaskier gaining on him. 

“You don’t have to be embarrassed about your cock!” Jaskier shouted, and Geralt froze as a cloud of birds lit into the sky. In the distance, a straggle of fishermen turned their heads.

“For the love of-” Geralt scrubbed his hands over his face. 

“Like I tried to say last time,” Jaskier continued, thankfully quieter as he picked at the remaining knot at his wrist, the wet, untethered rope flopping in the breeze. “I get that it’s a Witcher thing.” 

“A what.” Geralt said flatly, turning to look at Jaskier blithely pacing next to him.

“The whole … life-or-death, adrenaline making the body do crazy things … I mean,” Jaskier laughed ruefully, “I’m not immune to it either.“ Geralt thought of the scent of Jaskier’s arousal, sharp and clear in the midst of the overwhelming brine. “I imagine that it’s just … so much more intense for Witchers.” 

Geralt thought he should just come clean, but the words felt at once too much and not enough to say. 

That he liked the way Jaskier smelled?

That his body reacted to Jaskier’s like flame to brittle vellum, like water to a cube of sugar, with a need that made him want to scratch off his own skin.

That he wanted to pin Jaskier down and just hold him there as Geralt rubbed his face against every part of Jaskier’s bare body, wanted to bite Jaskier, and lick him, and keep him there for _hours_ until Geralt got his fill. 

That Jaskier didn’t have to be afraid of Geralt, that he could _control_ it, it was just …. 

He _really_ liked the way Jaskier smelled.

Mentally apologizing to every single Witcher he knew, Geralt cleared his throat and muttered, “yeah … it’s a Witcher thing.” 

–

After tracking down the fucking bandits that had left them in the boat to die (and _worse_ , taken Roach), there was finally: an inn, a bath, and a jug of wine. 

Geralt resolved to get himself very, very drunk in an effort to obliterate memories of Jaskier rubbing his face against his crotch, an image which was already setting up camp in his mind, and no doubtably would be paying a visit to the many sleepless nights to come. 

There were two beds. Geralt had been very specific about there being _two beds_ , and when he walked in, Jaskier was lounging on his own, already mouthing his way through a lyrical reimagining of the day’s events as he plucked at his lute. 

When Geralt came in, Jaskier looked up and smiled, warm and wine-drunk, eyes shining in the candlelight. These nights were the hardest, when Geralt felt his yearning like a cruel squeeze to the gut, but even worse were the ones they spent apart, when Jaskier would return in the small hours of the night smelling of sex and satisfaction and _someone else_. 

“You look like a man who needs a drink,” Jaskier said, putting aside his lute before standing, grabbing the jug from the table as he padded towards Geralt. 

It was dark, in the room, the glow of the moon through the window shuttered, the candles low and soft. It was easy to miss a step, catch a slippery corner of the carpet, and.

Jaskier was sprawled in Geralt’s lap. 

A warm weight. Hair tickling his chin. Geralt realized that he had fallen half-backwards, one elbow propping himself up from the bed, the other hand stabilizing Jaskier’s waist. 

“ _Don’t move_!” Jaskier sounded urgent. “I know you want to push me off, but I’m still holding the wine!” 

Geralt swallowed and looked up, seeing the perilous grasp that Jaskier’s fingertips had on the jug, which already threatened to upend over the both of them. 

This would ruin his bed. One of the _two beds_ Geralt had so explicitly asked for. 

“Just … just stay still,” Jaskier breathed through his teeth as he eased the jug back to a firm grip, his hands trembling as he placed it carefully on a nearby table. “Now,” he said, clapping both hands on Geralt’s shoulders, making no move to climb off of his lap. 

“Now?” Geralt asked, confused. 

“Now we talk about this very non-Witcher thing happening here,” Jaskier said and shifted his hips, making Geralt shudder as he realized that his body had already responded, before his mind had even caught up. 

“The adrenaline, like you said,” Geralt muttered, even as his hands fell to Jaskier’s hips, and hauled him close, feeling an answering hardness between his legs. “The wine would’ve spilled …” Geralt mumbled as he pressed his face to the side of Jaskier’s neck. He was already getting dizzy with the bath-clean smell of Jaskier’s skin, his control worn so thin after such a long wait. 

“There is no wine,” Jaskier said breathlessly, pulling Geralt’s shirt off of his head. “Got nervous waiting for you … drunk it all.” 

And indeed he had, but after Geralt spent a thorough amount of time sucking it from Jaskier’s tongue, he felt as if he were quite drunk as well. 

–

Soap. Lavender oil. Fresh sea spray.

“… _all this time_? You really thought I would say no? For someone with cat-like vision you sure miss a _lot_ ,” Jaskier whispered heatedly into the pillow. 

“Hm,” Geralt said as he rubbed his nose against Jaskier’s nape, and sank his teeth gently into the curve of his shoulder to make him shiver, then laved his tongue slowly over the bite. 

Jaskier smelled of Jaskier, but best of all. 

Jaskier smelled of _Geralt_. 

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](https://greyduckgreygoose.tumblr.com/tagged/myfic)


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